Closed Cell
by Along Gator
Summary: [AU] I know you didn't mean it. (Pairings include US x UK, France x Seychelles, Belgium x Romano, Hungary x Prussia, Greece x Japan, and Belarus x Russia.)


**Note: The characters and image do not belong to me. This will be a series of one-shots. **

"And in her eyes, you see nothing

No sign of love behind the tears cried for no one

A love that should have lasted years"

-The Beatles, "For No One"

* * *

Two years ago, Alfred F. Jones had the brilliant idea of convincing his new boyfriend to get a gun for their home. "For protection," he had said with a bright smile, as if purchasing a firearm was the most normal thing in the whole world. Being the idiot that was head-over-heels for the blonde-haired blue-eyed man, Arthur Kirkland agreed. As the cashier was explaining the process of purchasing a gun, Arthur could feel Alfred's fingers intertwine with his. He turned slightly to shoot a flushed glare, but was hindered. The blonde male was smiling at him. "I love you," he mouthed. Arthur could only stare.

What Alfred really meant was, "I love you for this."

* * *

Now.

Rain was pouring down in sheets, soaking the asphalt beneath its heavy clouds. A lone figure ran down the empty streets, cursing under his breath. "A city with great atmosphere, he said... you'll love it here, he said... as if!" A loud splash succeeded his words, dousing him with dirty, cold water. "Fuck!" But he couldn't stop, he had to get home. Arthur couldn't stand the rain any longer.

Drawing all of his energy, the British man sprinted through the falling rain to the house that lay at the end of the street. He hoped that Alfred would at least have the courtesy to welcome back his lover. They had become pretty distant recently, aggravating Arthur. What if he was bored of him? What is he was seeing someone else while he was at work? What if they met in his house? Oh, the horror...

The ugly thoughts whirled around in his head, unstopping. It bothered him greatly, so much that when he was in his little office, away from home, he couldn't concentrate on his work. Not being able to finish the assignments his boss gave him or fulfilling the monthly quota were becoming a normal occurrence for Arthur Kirkland. The pressure was boring down on him, like the rain.

All he wanted was to know, for certain, that Alfred really did feel the same way. After all, Arthur was... Arthur. Thirty six, nearing forty, with a confidence deficiency. If he didn't have the sure thing of Alfred's feelings, then man, he really was a failure.

Fishing out his house key from his wet coat pocket, Arthur focused his attention on opening the door to his warm house. The instant click in the lock when the key slipped in soothed him. Finally, home, sweet home.

The smell of something sickeningly sweet hit him, when he set foot inside. _What in the world…? _thought Arthur, as he peeked in the living room and kitchen. There were no signs of Alfred, although kitchen tools were laid about everywhere in a disorderly manner. He would have to talk to Alfred about that. Seeing that it would take a while to find him, Arthur settled on following the odor to take him to his destination. It took him up a flight of stairs and past three doors, before he found the source. Alfred was sitting on the bed that they shared with a half-finished cake.

"What are you…" Arthur stared at the mess. Cake crumbs peppered the bed sheets. Frosting was streaked on the bed. Alfred was practically nude, save for an unflattering briefs that had a hole near the waistband and a pair of black socks. Had he come home for this?

"Oh. Hey, Arthur!" Alfred grinned at the horrified British male. "I was waiting for you to come home, but I got hungry. Sorry." He jumped off of the bed and plodded over to where Arthur stood, rigid. "You must be tired. Come on." His frosting-caked hand reached out to grasp Arthur's hand.

He would have none of it. Flicking his hand away, Arthur replied, "I'm fine. Now, why the hell are you half-naked with cake? Did I miss the memo or something?"

Alfred gazed at his lover, surprised. "…yeah, it's our two-year anniversary. Remember?" His tone was low, and disappointed.

"Oh. Oh- I'm so sorry. I didn't realize-" This time, Arthur reached out to grasp Alfred, but he was too slow. He had hurt Alfred. The American turned and sat down on the bed. The cake tilted with the change of weight on one side.

"It's the work, isn't it?"

"No, Alfred. I just-"

"You never have time, do you?" The blue-eyed man glanced up, his eyes electrifying with hurt passion. "I had thought that we had gone over this. I thought we were on the same wavelength." He sighed shakily.

"I was wrong."

That did it. Balling his hands into fists, Arthur murmured, "And who are you to talk? All you ever do is sit around on your lazy ass, eating up all of _my_ money. I work hard to satisfy you, and _this_ is what you say to me? You ungrateful bastard!"

He sprung up. "Get off of your pedestal, Arthur! The only reason why I'm not working right now is because you want someone to manage the fucking house for you! It was _you_ who kept me here. Do you remember the conversation we had a year ago? About how I was more suited to clean, cook, and shit? No? WELL I FUCKING DO."

"You have a lot of nerve to talk like that, when it's _my_ roof you're living under. I could kick you out right now, and that would be the end of it!"

"Well, that would be a good thing, wouldn't it? A win-win for the both of us. You would get rid of an ungrateful, lazy ass, and I would find a better man." His eyes narrowed. "Someone who wouldn't cry when we would have sex. Someone who would have the fucking balls to put it in without worrying if I was going to get hurt! I'm a fucking man, Arthur! Don't you think I could take your little dick?!"

The rhetorical question tore into Arthur like a torpedo. It ripped away all processes of coherent thought. Alfred had fucked up. He had hit the sore spot.

"…how dare you."

"What? Did I hit a nerve? I'm sorry, maybe if I had some good sex, I would be more pleasant."

He had no idea how deep he was digging.

Arthur stood frozen, his fists shaking. He needed to get away. Turning away from his lover, he walked out. Rain water from his clothes had stained the rugs on the floor. His shoes made _squish_ sounds as they trod over the soaked fabric. He would have to clean it up.

"Are you just going to walk away from here?" called Alfred, not done with his banter yet. "Are you just going to leave your own house and your boyfriend? You're going to be a fucking coward? Is that it, Arthur?!"

He had to get away. Alfred didn't mean what he was saying. He was angry. It was Arthur's fault. He had forgotten their anniversary. Alfred's anger was right.

"Maybe I should fuck one of your coworkers while you're out. That Francis guy has been eyeing me lately. I think he'll do. Hell, I'd take anybody!"

Arthur halted. He was at the foot of the stairs. At his right, there was the living room. At his left, there was the kitchen. The kitchen had the mess. The kitchen had the knives. The kitchen had the gun. Slowly, as if walking through a dream, the British male turned to the left and shuffled into the kitchen. He walked past the pots, pans, forks, and ladles that lay about. He would have to clean it up. His pale hand ran over the kitchen counter, feeling the cold surface. They soon rested on the gleam of a sharp knife.

_Should I? _He tilted his head. If he stabbed Alfred, the blood would stain his clothes. Also, he was sure Alfred, in his last attempt to get away, would grab him with his filthy hands.

Once again, his hand roamed. He could still hear Alfred's insults, but it was getting muffled. Arthur was not sure if that was because of the distance between them or his instinctual response to save himself from further pain.

The gun was resting in the cabinet. Alfred had said that it would be easy to find. The irony was real. He took the gun out from its home, feeling the weight in his palm. It was cold, even colder than the kitchen counter. A block of ice. Or a dead end.

This would settle it. The British male turned to see the other male at the doorway. His eyes still held their electrifying beauty.

"Arth-"

A shot interrupted Alfred's call. The bullet ripped through his chest, spurting blood onto the kitchen floor. Another bullet followed, and then another, and yet another. They dotted his body like a worn archery target. The spots of blood were soon turning into a scarlet pool.

"…wha…" he gasped, dropping down onto his knees. He could hear the treading of Arthur's shoes. They sent ripples through the blood, when they were finally in view. A cold barrel pressed against his forehead.

"Don't worry." Arthur pressed the trigger, blasting Alfred's head into an indistinguishable mess. The bloody body fell down, splashing the red liquid everywhere. It spasmed for a few seconds, before becoming still.

Looking at the mess, the British male realized he would have to clean it up. Everything. From the bed, to the rugs, to the kitchen, to Alfred's body.

But did he want to?

What good would it do, if he did?

They would eventually find out. He would be labeled a criminal and sent to a prison. He might even become a household name.

Sighing, Arthur settled himself down onto the wet floor. The blood happily seeped into his clothes.

His hand squeezed around the gun. There were two bullets left.

_Maybe I'll see you. _The thought occurred, as he stared down at what was once Alfred F. Jones.

_I'll apologize then. _He raised the gun to his right temple, all the while, keeping his eyes on Alfred.

_I'll make it up to you. _His index finger wrapped around the trigger.

_I know you didn't mean it. _He pressed.

* * *

**Another Note: Arthur seems like the type who regrets easily.**


End file.
